Raincheck
by CornishGirl
Summary: (S9) The Impala, in the dark, hummed down the highway beneath a raft of blackening clouds. He and Sam had not spoken for some time. He and Gadreel had not spoken for some time. Sam was slumped against the passenger door, lost in dreams of God knew what. Dean sat behind the wheel with two beings beside him: one, his brother; another, his brother's inhabitant.
**Raincheck**

* * *

He knew. He damn well _knew_ he'd done the right thing.

 _For yourself_ , his conscience snarked.

Yeah. Okay. For himself.

 _And_ for Sam.

What, he was supposed to sit back and let the trials, now aborted, take his brother from him? Hell no. _Hell_ no.

Heaven, yes.

 _He wouldn't want it. He wouldn't. He wouldn't want this_.

Sam hadn't wanted this. Sam was prepared to die.

For the greater good.

For the needs of the many.

Sam had always been about others.

That night, when Sam told brother and father he was leaving for Stanford, it was as much about _others_ as it was about himself.

Yes, he wanted out of the life. Said hunting was not for him. Said he'd served his _apprenticeship,_ now needed to move on, to save people in an entirely different, entirely mundane, entirely _normal_ way: by becoming a lawyer.

 _Defense_ lawyer, he'd declared, as if somehow that mitigated his retreat from the field of battle.

All it meant to Dad was that his youngest was defecting.

What it meant to Dean was that he'd be alone.

Sure, yeah, Dad would be there. And Dean loved him. Worshipped him. Wanted to be like him. But having John Freaking Winchester as your example was excruciatingly intimidating.

 _I can't be what he wants. I'm not what he needs to protect._

Because John Winchester had not protected his wife.

It was Sam. Always Sam. Dean, he counted on. Dean, he depended on. But it was a nebulous _expectation of performance_ that Dean had always found difficult to understand. He knew it wasn't a bad thing, that his father trusted him. It was a warm glow in his belly, that he could back up Dad. That Dad could toss him a weapon and know his eldest would remove the threat, whatever that threat might be.

But.

At some point, Dad had shifted his attention from the eldest to the youngest.

It wasn't that Dean felt left out. Hardly that. He was in the thick of things. He was necessary. He was _counted on_.

But he didn't know everything, and he _knew_ he didn't know everything; and he knew, too, that he still needed guidance. That he _craved_ guidance.

But—Sam.

Sammy's _special_ , Dad had said once, as he knocked back his fifth shot of whiskey.

 _If you can't save Sam, you're going to have to kill him._

Yeah. That was special.

So, Dean saved him.

Again.

And now an angel rode inside him.

The Impala, in the dark, hummed down the highway beneath a raft of blackening clouds. He and Sam had not spoken for some time. He and _Gadreel_ had not spoken for some time. Sam was slumped against the passenger door, lost in dreams of God knew what.

 _God_ knew what.

Dean sat behind the wheel with two beings beside him: one, his brother; another, his brother's inhabitant.

 _I did this. I did this. He'd hate it. If he knew, he would_. _He'd hate it. He'd hate_ _me_ _._

Sam also hated, to this day, that his big brother had sold his own soul, had _died_ , for his kid brother's resurrection. What would he think of that same big brother allowing him to be _possessed?_

Yeah. The days of Sam wanting to be just like Dean had vanished long ago.

Dean didn't think Sam found anything admirable in his big brother any more.

Sam was sound asleep. Dean supposed he might awaken him, start a conversation significant only in its _in_ significance, just to have a familiar voice in the car. Because Sam still sounded like Sam, acted like Sam, unless Gadreel was invoked.

 _I can't lose you. I can't. Call it co-dependence. Call it fucking brotherly love. I don't care. I need you with me, man._

Lost in humid interstate darkness, Sam slept on.

Dean dug into his pocket, retrieved his phone. Called up contacts. Scanned the names, realized so many of them were gone. _Too_ many.

Dad. Pastor Jim. Caleb. Jo. Ellen. _Bobby._

He hesitated over one name, then pressed his thumb against the cool, slick surface of the cell screen. Considered disconnecting, but let the call go through. Placed the phone against his ear.

And she picked up. _"Dean?"_

"Hey, Jody."

 _"_ _You okay?"_ she asked at once, her tone a mix of cop coupled with . . . okay, yeah. Kind of a mom. Mostly a friend.

Everyone else, pretty much, was dead.

"Yeah," he said.

 _"_ _No,"_ she said back. _"What's wrong? Is Sam okay?"_

She knew that much, that Sam was all that mattered to him.

"Yeah. Yeah, he's . . . " And it was suddenly difficult to finish. Impossible to lie.

He lied to everyone about everything. To Sam. To himself. Only one person had ever seen through him.

 _Damn, but I miss Bobby._

Jody's voice sharpened. _"Dean. What's going on? Is Sam okay?"_

Dean swallowed hard. "He will be. Yeah. He's right beside me. It's okay. Nothing we can't handle."

She said nothing for what seemed like forever. _"So, what's up?"_

His smile flashed, was gone. "That's what I was going to ask you. Alex still there? How's she doing?"

 _"_ _She's—okay,"_ Jody answered. _"Good days, bad days. I think that's mostly being a teen. But she's never looked back that I can tell. We're up at the cabin. She fished in the pond today, caught nothing and bitched about it; and then baked sweet potatoes for dinner. I think we're good."_

"Yeah. Okay." Dean drew in a breath, let it go. "Hey, Jody . . ."

Her tone was calm. Knowing. _"What is it?"_

"You ever . . . you ever do anything you know someone you cared about wouldn't want? I mean, not a _bad_ thing—" He'd sworn to himself it wasn't, "—just, you know, something?"

She did not ask, _'What have you done?'_

She asked instead, _"What is it, Dean?"_

He glanced at Sam, still slumped against the passenger door. _I let an angel possess my brother._

Instead, he said, "Saved the world."

He heard the dry huff in her voice. _"What, again?"_

That made him smile. "And twice on Sundays."

 _"_ _Dean—why don't you and Sam come on up here? Hang out at the cabin. Fish. Bake sweet potatoes._ _Eat_ _sweet potatoes."_

The first fat drops of rain speckled the windshield. Filled it. He waited until the glass was occluded, then switched on the wipers. Yet another part of the Impala's song, the slick, squeaking _whisk-and-thump_.

 _"_ _Dean?"_

He glanced at Sam again, then shifted against the leather seat, stretching stiff muscles. "Yeah, um—raincheck?" That made him smile, as wipers played rubber-bladed metronome against windshield glass. "We're almost home."

Jody was silent a moment. _"You are always welcome, you boys. I hope you know that. Bobby's gone, and I can't pretend to be him . . . but you're always welcome. I mean, I like to think I'm not old enough to be your mother—"_

"You're not," Dean assured her.

 _"—_ _but I'm always good for a home-cooked meal, an aged single malt, and God knows I can listen to far-fetched tales. Lived through a couple of 'em myself."_

Dean swallowed hard. "Thanks, Jody."

 _"_ _You know where to find me."_

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I— _we_ —do."

He disconnected.

The rain fell hard.

And Sam, with an angel inside him, slept hard, too.

* * *

 **~ end ~**

* * *

 _Prompts from: Naz, NoilyPrat, BurgundyHope. Something to do with Jody, Gadreel, pond, and sweet potatoes. Hope this works for all!_


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